“No good,” said her husband grimly.
“Oh, oughtn’t we go back and see what we have done?” She could scarcely speak with the wind of their transit blowing the words down her throat. “Oh, I know Mr. Floyd-Rosney won’t, but, Randal, don’t you think we ought?”
“Hardly,” said Randal.
Floyd-Rosney’s head slowly turned, and his slumberous eyes, with a bated fury smoldering in their depths, looked their sneering triumph at his wife.
“That crack,—was it——?” he asked of Randal.
“A pistol ball, I think. I saw—I thought I saw a puff of smoke from the Cherokee hedge. My head feels hot yet. For simple curiosity look at my hat.”
Floyd-Rosney removed the hat from the head of the man by him. He turned it in his hand and his eyes glittered. Then he held it out for Ducie’s observation.
There was a small orifice on one side, and a corresponding rift, higher, on the other. Evidently, the ball had passed through.
“Thirty caliber, I should judge,” Floyd-Rosney ventured.
“Looks so?” Randal assented.